


Strike Slip Home

by Alex_deMorra (Ergo_Sum)



Series: Fence Sitter [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Broken Families, Child Abuse, Coaching, life skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 04:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8650813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ergo_Sum/pseuds/Alex_deMorra
Summary: Chapter 9: Fence SitterMom has started night school. Dad is traveling a lot for work. So, 11-year-old Micah is being asked to step up and help more around the house and with his brother Seth. He's got friends but there isn't anyone like Tyrell, who has been in Phoenix for a year already (even he isn't writing as much as he used to). The one person who is around? Bryan, the hot shot new gymnastics coach who recently relocated from the east coast. Coach Bryan helps Micah figure things out both as an athlete and as a real person. Plus, he's attractive. For an old guy.





	1. Chapter 1

“Micah, get your brother some milk,” mom told me with her first chance to sit down, harried and grumpy, having just come home from work. I slid off the chair in much the same way that Seth would have done if he went to get his own milk, and swung open the refrigerator door and looked inside. It was chock to the gills with containers on top of containers. There were multiple jars of pickles — whole pickles, sweet pickle slices, sweet pickle relish, dill pickle slices and at least two of them were dill pickles cut lengthwise in quarters. We didn’t even like pickles that much; it’s just something that mom found a lot of coupons for. On the middle shelf was green jello with pineapples along the bottom. There were a few packets of lunch meat each evolving from pink to metallic gray in their own timeframe. Tupperware of every color, shape, and size made by the company with who knew what inside each of them.

“Will you just get the damn milk and close the refrigerator, Micah?” mom sniped, frustrated with the speed (or lack thereof) for my ability to complete her request. “You know, it would have to throw itself at you in order for you to see it. It’s there.” She pointed vaguely at one of the top two shelves.

“Where?”

She hollered, “ _There!_ What are you, blind? Do we need to go get your eyes checked?”

“No,” I sulked. Sure enough, in the middle of the top shelf with absolutely nothing else in front of it, was the blue generic brand half-gallon tetra pack of non-fat milk. I grabbed it with both hands and closed the heavy refrigerator door with my butt. I placed the container on the ceramic countertop that was both tiled and grouted in mushroom-y beige and opened the lower cabinet to pull out the large stack of fluted plastic cups.

“I want the blue one,” said Seth, as if I didn’t know that always is, always was, and probably always will be his preference.

“Got it,” I replied and started the process of pouring milk that, for some reason, I found really awkward. Like today. I unfolded the container at the waxed v at the top of the milk, grabbed onto the sides, got on my tip-toes and lifted my elbows as high up as they would go, placed the open arrow against the lip of the cup and tilted it just enough to get a smooth stream going.

Easy enough, right? I mean…pouring milk.

But when it was half full, my hands slipped, the tip of the container toppled the cup and milk went flying.

“Micah!” yelled mom. She boxed my ear and I dropped the carton where milk plugged all over the linoleum and spread quickly to the edge of the floor. It approached the edge of the new carpet. The one that was chosen to match the color of the kitchen tiles exactly. The one that we had done all the way around the house. This was because Grandma Rebecca, who was mostly a real estate agent these days, said that if we did, we’d get more money for the house when we sold it.

I wanted to yell, I wanted to grab a towel, I wanted to have never done any of that but all I could do was squeak and give her one of those dumb faces she hated so much. I hated that I froze up like this. I hated it because she hated it. But I didn’t know how it happened and I didn’t know how else to be.

Seth got down from his chair to right the milk carton while mom pulled me into action in the way that she did. In this case, that meant that she grabbed me by my hair and over to the counter she opened the drawer that held our kitchen towels. But she did it with such force that the whole drawer fell off its rails as it popped out and fell on the floor, its corner gouged my shin as it fell. I didn’t make a sound even as the white streak dotted with red, fuller and fuller until the blood started dripping down my leg into my sock.

Mom didn’t notice that part. Only the milk.

“Clean that up. Do _not_ let it touch the carpet or you will be sorry,” she warned, pissed off and red with anger.

The doorbell rang.

Before she answered it, I got instructions, “Put the towels in plastic bags so you don’t drag dripping milk over the brand new carpet. Then, you will use cleanser and water to clean it properly so that it won’t be sticky later. Do you understand me?”

“Yes ma’am,” I mumbled, unsure of whether she actually heard me say it.

Seth grabbed a few dish towels and ran to the edge of the carpet to sweep the liquid from there inwards. His lower lip trembled even though it wasn't him that mom lashed out at. It made me feel a little better that he shared the burden of her outbursts. At the same time, I felt like a jerk for the role I played in making him feel scared and sad and whatever else he felt when this stuff happened.

“Thanks, Seth,” I told him.

He gave me a tight smile in reply.

The man who mom was talking to in the other room sounded familiar. I was a surprised to hear her pass on information about Seth’s bedtime, and mine, and about how much TV we were allowed to watch, the chores we had to do, and the books we liked to read. She and the visitor strolled back to the kitchen where I dropped milk-soaked towels into a huge bag — the kind that went in the outside garbage can and not the flip-top one in the kitchen. I noticed that she had put on the face that she wore for strangers. The one where people like her friends and my teachers would give me a confidential tap on the arm, and tell me how lucky I was to have such a beautiful, charming mom.

It took me a tic to realize that I knew the man that stood next to her. It was that thing where I had only seen someone in one specific place but then when I saw him somewhere else, like somewhere not expected, like in my house, I temporarily forgot who he was. I felt a little dumb about it, too.

“Hey, Micah,” he said and he went up to my brother (who was back to sitting on the blue flowered vinyl kitchen chair at his spot at the end kitchen table); he squatted, held out a hand and introduced himself, “Hi there, Seth. We’ve seen each other before but you may not know my name. I’m Bryan, Micah’s new coach. But tonight, I’ll be watching you while your mom heads off to start school. Alright?”

Seth gave him one of those super sweet shy smiles that made strangers go all gooey. He was one of those kids who tried to become invisible until, at some point, he figured that person was a-okay. Once that happened, he ran amok, not bothering about the sound and mess he made.

I went to the cabinet under the sink to grab a green squeezy bottle and squirted the strong-smelling green liquid over the area already sticky with milk.

“What are you doing, champ?” Bryan asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Micah wasn’t being as careful as he should have been with the milk. He’s taking care of the mess.” she explained to Coach Bryan and reached inside of her purse to get her massive set of keys before she slung the bag over her shoulder and looked at me, “Isn’t that right, honey?”

“Micah wasn’t being as careful as he should have been with the milk. He’s taking care of the mess,” she explained to Coach Bryan and reached inside of her purse to get her massive set of keys before she slung the bag over her shoulder. Then, she looked at me, “Isn’t that right, honey?”

She bent down to give Seth a kiss on the lips, playfully ruffled my hair and walked out as if five minutes ago she wasn’t ready to rip off my head. “Don’t forget to wash those. There’s time to get them into the dryer before bedtime,” said mom. Then she turned to Seth, “Be good for Bryan. I’ll be home by nine.”

I heard the front door close and the doorknob jiggle. She always checked to make sure the door was locked even if some someone was home.

Coach cracked a smile and said, “I’d say it was only a bit of spilt milk but…” and then he laughed in a way that made me think I was supposed to join in. Maybe it was a joke. If it was, I totally didn’t get it.

Mom’s car started. It wasn’t until I heard her driveway that the clamp around my chest and throat loosened up. I went back to cleaning up and said, “Yeah, I spilled some milk. I’m going to get this washed before the whole place stinks up.”

“Let me help,” he offered and picked up the black, plastic bag that dripped at the corner. I wadded up a few more paper towels and held them at the leak while the two of us walked to the garage, where it always smelt of motor oil and warm dryer lint.

I looked over to my new coach — Bryan, he said to call him — who looked almost like that guy on Magnum PI, in his Hawaiian shirt and long pants (except, no mustache) and he smelled nice, though I couldn’t say what I liked about that other than how it made my nose tingle. I got an extra whiff of whatever it was when he leaned over and started pressing on different buttons on the washing machine.

To say that I felt confused right now would have been a serious understatement. I didn’t know mom would be out tonight, didn’t know why dad wasn’t back like he promised, and didn’t know why it was my new coach, of all people, who was the one who was here and not one of our neighbors or one of mom’s friends. Not only that, I didn’t know why Coach was being all friendly and helpful when at the gym, he was all about drills and reps and form and scoring.

Hey,” Coach said, concerned. I felt his attention on my ear, which still burned a bit from earlier, and tried to play it off like I didn’t notice. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. You?” My eyes were the same height at that part of his shirt that had a dip at the valley between one side of his chest and the other and I imagined, for a moment, of how it would feel to rest my forehead there. And whether his hands his hands would be soft when he rubbed my back — if he rubbed my back — or whether they would stay hard like they felt when he lifted me onto the high bar or rings. Some part of me must have realized that I was being rude by not looking up at his face like I was supposed to. So, I did. Just in time for him to say, “It doesn’t look fine.”

“What do you mean?” My hand flew up to my ear. There wasn’t anything wet. If anything, it was a little warm. My fingers couldn’t even feel it pounding.

“Micah, you look upset.”

“Oh, um…” I hedged and tried to think about what it was that I might be upset about. Not mom. Well yes, mom. But I can’t exactly say so, can I. Period. Not a question. I ended up telling him, “I don’t like to mess up.” That was a total truth.

He frowned for a sec. “I know you don’t. But,” he stopped for a moment, his eyes squinted and stared right into me like he had laser eyes for a superpower, which would make whatever he said next go right into my brain, where the idea would remain, anchored and ready for him to pull up whenever he wanted, “You _do_ know that messing up can be a good thing, right? It means that you tried something you weren’t quite ready for.”

“Or, it meant that I didn’t pay attention.”

He nodded, “True. Sometimes, I’ve seen you do that. There have been a few times where I’ve wanted you to get your head back in the room. So, what happened tonight?”

I shrugged my shoulders again. This was stupid.

“Micah, come back. This isn’t me yelling at you. This is me trying to help you figure out which one it was — not paying attention or doing something that was too hard.”

“It just slipped.” I looked at him again, expecting that he’d have something to say about that but he didn’t. He just looked at me like he was ready for me to tell him the next thing. “Okay. I put the cup on the counter and I opened the milk and poured it. The sides were slippery and my hand slipped and the carton fell on the edge. Then the glass went flying.” Each next word brought the clamp back. I was breathing heavy, like more than I did with a workout, and I wanted to stop talking because I didn’t want to cry. I hated crying. And I definitely, certainly didn’t want to cry in front of Coach Bryan, and especially not over something so stupid.

The time before he said the next thing took forever. When he did, he was totally calm. “Wanna know what I think?”

I nodded.

“It sounds like one of those times where you made an honest mistake. You were trying your best, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t say it without thinking about it. I wasn’t there and I’m not the one who needs to know. So, when this happened, were you trying your best?”

“Yeah. For real. I mean, I was trying to do it right.”

“So, if you were trying to do it right and you messed up, then it means that you need to find a way to do it better. Sometimes more than just paying attention.”

“Okay.”

“I wasn’t there. You have to tell me. What was the thing that messed you up?”

“My hand slipped.” He was quiet again, waiting for me to go again. It was weird standing here in the garage, next to a whirling washing machine, trying to get to a truth that would be new to me. “Um. So, maybe I should wipe off the sides first? Or my hands?”

“Maybe. Or, consider this. This washing machine is just a little shorter than the countertop. I think you were trying to use a surface that was just right for your mom but too high for you.”

I looked at the machine and then I looked back at him. I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Here, I’ll show you.” He pulled down the detergent and unscrewed the cup again. “Stand like you were standing at the counter and pour the soap in.”

I just looked up at him. I could feel my forehead scrunching up and my lips twist a little. I felt I was being set-up.

Without crossing his arms or anything, he stood there and expected me to do it. So I did. Even though I felt stupid doing it. I put my hands around the sides and lifted. It was heavy and sloshy and full. When I tipped it, it started going well. But the thick liquid glugged. Like the flow got heavy but only it a bubble. Then the balance was all off. And I tried to correct it. But then it went over the top. And…in total slow motion…the bottle knocked the cup and…it was going to spill…I saw it tipping.

But it didn’t.

Coach grabbed the bottle and the laundry cup and, easy peasy, poured the soap back in with no mess or anything. He asked, “Is that what happened?”

I nodded and noticed that I was only wearing my socks and that concrete was making my feet cold. There was a scraping sound as he unfolded and swung a step-stool down. He placed it so that the steps were sideways to the machine.

“I want you to take a step up and try again.”

I did and turned sideways with one foot on the high step and one foot on the low step. When I picked up the detergent again and went to pour it, he stopped me. “Hold up. I’m going to put your hands a different way so you’ve got one doing the directing,” he said as he put my hand that was on the opposite side of the spout near the top, “and the other hand doing most of the heavy lifting,” and he put my other hand on the same side of the spout but low down, “so that when you lift,” he put his hands over mine and I felt how the one hand pulled back as it lifted up while the other hand pressed forward, “you have more control.”

The way we were standing meant his arm was around my waist and on the other side of me, I could feel the heat from his side going into my side, which made it warmer. But then he stepped back and poured the detergent from the cup into the bottle, lickety-split, no big deal, and said, “Now you do it.”

It was still stupid. I meant, I felt stupid doing it. But it was easier. I did it and there wasn’t any mess.

“There you go, champ. You just needed a better way to do it. Now come down from there and we’ll go back to your brother.” The plastic cup of the detergent made a neat little _click_ sound when it made contact for the last time he poured the liquid back into the bottle. I folded up the step-stool and was looking around to see where he got it from when he took it from me and hung it on the pair of nails that stuck out from the garage wall.

We went back to Seth who was halfway through his bowl of macaroni and cheese, and we watched Wide World of Sports and did our homework before we had to clean up and get ready for bed.

I woke up when mom came back home and I overheard the two of them talking. About how much she appreciated him coming over on such short notice, especially since dad was always taking these long business trips lately. I died a little when she told him that I needed a stronger male role model and said something that I couldn’t quite hear about _other boys_.

“He’s so talented,” she went on to say and neglected to tell him of all my shortcomings: about how she’d caught me stealing, about how she and I fought and, when we did, about how I didn’t answer her questions and, instead, wore this dumb face she hated, about how she sometimes still caught me after I had dressed-up after school. Or, about how neither she nor dad thought I lived up to my potential.

If it were me telling him all these things, she might get on me about lying by omission. But since it was her that was doing the sharing, I was glad she held a few things back rather than spilling everything. There’s only been one person who liked me in spite of all those things. He lived more than three hundred miles away and didn't write as much as he used to.

Finally, mom gave him a chance to talk. He was just sharing his story about how a failed relationship on the east coast led him to follow an opportunity out here when I fell asleep to the sound of their voices.


	2. Chapter 2

“Alright champ — here we go. Do it with the Geinger,” Coach came up behind me, his mitts clutched my waist, his fingers and thumbs almost touched each other, and hoisted me up so that I could grab the high bar.

No harness.

No foam pit.

Just me, the high bar, and the mats that were thick enough to break a fall but not soft enough to make it feel like it didn’t break my face if I were unlucky enough to fall that way.

Coach has been bringing me up to this fancy gymnastics center for a while now. Not every day. We couldn’t afford it. Well, we couldn’t afford it on the days I did come up but Coach worked a deal. I helped out with taking some videos for him and some of the other coaches. In exchange, I got access to the high bar and rings and vault that had huge pits filled with foam blocks so new they outgassed chemicals rather than musty ol’ sweat. Stuff here was new - the mats, the paint, the trampolines, the showers. The new beemers in the parking lot and the new training gear worn by the kids who rode in them.

The same kids who checked out my faded long sleeve tee with Quiksilver printed down one arm and a pair of tight sweats that I’d cut out the elastic at the ankle after they got too short. Some snickered demurely behind their hand. Others didn’t…but only ‘cause they didn’t bother with the hand. Whatever. We all used the same tapes, grips and chalk.

Then there were those like Andy and Jess who started to wear their own versions of faded tees and cut-offs, who watched me practice while stood against the opposite wall of the gym, and who perfected the art of rolling their eyes at exactly the same time. At the moment, they were doing Tkachev drills on the trampolines in the center of the room.

Also at the moment, Coach stood aside the high bar on the ground and indicated he was simply waiting for me to start.

Okay, I was doing it for real.

My legs lifted to a pike to kick-off the momentum I needed to get into my giant swing. I went over once. Twice. Then it went right into it.

First, the flyaway. All I had to so was to let go at just the right moment: ten o’clock on the upswing. And I was flying, gravity on hold for just a moment. But my body couldn’t just let it happen.

Because next was the half-turn, which started by using my innermost muscles to twist and bring my legs up so that like a cat, I contracted midair into a flip. Then I extended my body again, my legs in one long line with arms, to catch the bar on the way down and continue as if I were simply in the middle of a swing.

It wasn’t pretty. I caught too close to my fingers and almost ate it. Almost. Coach saw it, too, and shouted out, “Save it, Micah. Save it. You got it, kid. Give me two more. Swing and a Geinger.”

The bar groaned under my weight on every down swing. It did it again on every release. There were times, like now, that I couldn’t miss. I’d let off. I’d fly. And then I’d flip so freely in the air where I’d be suspended for exactly the right amount of time for me to get lined up to grab onto the bar. It felt like I could do anything.

“Now give me a Yamawaki!”

I did a giant swing. And another. And on this upswing and when I was almost at the pinnacle, as close to eleven o’clock, I let go. I let go but I kept the motion and shot skyward to jump over the bar to continue in an arc. Then came the twist at the half-way point. A brief freefall and soon, I caught the bar again.

As if it were that easy.

There were a few people clapping and a few more cheering and then Coach said, “Again, kid. Give me another.”

The trick was to get speed and to build up power behind the speed so that when I let go, there’d be serious height between my feet and the bar as I went over it. There was only two places that it could really go wrong. That was one. If I didn’t get the speed or the power so that I didn’t get the height, my foot would catch the bar and there would be no saving me. The other was if I didn’t catch the bar on the way down. I’ve done both loads of times.

But not this time.

Two giant swings and a release well clear of the bar, which I caught on the way down. Then, since it was going so well, I thought I’d chance it. Take a risk. Go straight from the Yamawaki, straight into a Geigner. I could do it. In a magic moment like this, it would be possible. I didn’t even do an extra giant. At the six o’clock mark, I swung my legs harder and at the ten o’clock, the release, the contract, the flip, the extend and... and…oh god…air?

The blue mat sped toward me with a sad-sounding chorus of“aw” that made my heart plummet faster than my actual fall.

I pulled my legs around best I could to avoid a face plant. My toes came down just in time but the rest of my body flew forward. I threw my arms out — _thud._ I just made an effective but awkward spidey-style landing.

“Not bad,” said Coach, his weight was on one leg and the other crossed over at the ankle, and his arms were crossed, which sometimes mean that he was closed off and needed to think, but not now. Now, he looked happy, like I pleased him or something. “How’d that feel?”

I stood up, shook out my legs and hands, stretched my back, and all of those other things I did to check in that I was still in one piece. Anyone who had come over to watch had already dispersed to get back to their own practice. Despite the miss, I was elated. “Coach, that was so great! I don’t think I’ve ever done a Yamawaki like that. I mean, not with that much air.” I was babbling now. Coach was nodding along, happy to go along with whatever I was saying until I stopped. “So, how’d it look? Was it awesome?”

“It was a thing of beauty,” he said. I looked at him, completely unsure of whether he was serious or not. He raised his eyebrows so they arched up high, “What? Not kidding. It was great. But…”

Ugh. I grimaced. There wasn’t supposed to be a but.

“Pay more attention the to your legs. They need to be closer together. The judges are looking for a strong, long, lean profile. That means your legs are straight and held taut. It helps to show that you’re fully in control of the motion.” He stood a few feet in front of me. Close enough for me to see the bulges of his shoulder and the sinews that streaked from his elbow to his wrist and when he ducked down to catch my glance, I quickly looked away to the clock to check the time. “Are you listening, Micah?”

Crap. Is it possible he saw me looking? “I need to keep my legs straighter.”

“Exactly. Are you okay to do the whole thing?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll give you a hand up.”

Mentally, I went through the routine: three giant swings, stop on top for a handstand, reverse direction for two back giants swings into an Endo. Get to the top for a Pirouette. Two swings to the Yamakawi. One swing to the Geigner. Another swing to the dismount: a full twist double layout. Coach stood right behind me, ready for my cue before lifting. I nodded and took a sharp inhale in when he grasped the bottom part of my ribs.

Instantly, his hands were off me. “What happened?”

“You just surprised me, that’s all.” I tried to catch my breath. Play it cool. But there was this look on his face that told me he wasn’t buying it.

“Take off your grips. Grab your bag. We’re going,” he said all of this under his breath and it was not an ask but an order. When I didn’t move, he prompted me, “Now. Meet me at the car. You have one minute.”

Coach never lost his temper. Never. He was always calm. Not like now. And definitely not like this where he’d gone from happy as a clam to completely, totally not in just a few seconds. Coach Nick, the owner of the gym, watched Bryan storm off to the coaches locker room. Then he turned back to me, gave me a thumbs up, and indicated that I should come talk to him.

“I can’t,” I mouthed and headed to the kid's lockers to pick-up my stuff. When I came out, Coach Nick was there. “I have to go. Sorry,” I told him.

“Next time you’re here, Micah, make sure you come see me. I want to talk to you about summer camp.”

“I don’t think we can aff-“

He interrupted, “Just come talk to me about it. I want to expand the program.”

I rushed past him, frustrated that he was stopping me from getting to the car faster, and muttered, “Uh. Yeah. Thanks. I’ll do that. Sorry, I can’t talk.” Then I jogged out the double doors and across the parking lot where I saw Coach open the passenger door and walk around to the driver’s side.

It was fairly obvious that I should just follow his lead so I slid into the gold and wood veneer station wagon, closed the door, and fastened the seat belt without saying a word. My finger found one of the many cracks on the vinyl bench seat and explored both the ridge of the crack and the dark yellow foam underneath it while we drove in silence. Even the radio was turned off.

“What’d I do?” I asked when we were more than half-way home. I’d wracked my brain and couldn’t figure out what would make him act this way. I tried reasoning through it. I was sore where he grabbed me. But, I didn’t throw out any attitude. I didn’t quit. I didn’t zone out. I would have gone on if he didn’t stop me.

Coach Bryan’s jaw kept flexing and his eyes were glued to the road. After a few moments, he cleared his throat. “We’re going to stop at my place first. Then I’ll take you home.”

“But…”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Micah,” said Coach, impatiently. He may have said that I didn’t do anything wrong but there were waves of frustration that came at me from the driver’s seat that said otherwise.

Neither of us said anything more until we pulled up in front of a little stucco house in that off white color that set off the surrounding ones painted everything from yellow to mint green to sky blue and tangerine. Interlocked s-shaped red bricks made up the roof, except where there were pieces knocked away, and the front garden was covered entirely in thin brown grass except for a scraggle of cacti and succulents under the big, front window.

Fresh Lysol and stale pot greeted my nose as soon as the door opened. The inside was nothing like him. On second thought, there was nothing _of_ him, either.

The carpets were the brown version of the crusty green and yellow shag I grew up with and the few pieces uneven furniture, were covered with Mexican blankets in shades of green, turquoise and gray. There was a single old school La-Z-Boy with a wooden lever that would bring up the foot rest, was a blue blanket that was supposed to be the color of night sky since the scene was taken up with a gray wolf howling at a yellow moon, except I’d never actually seen a sky of that color before.

We walked through his living room and under the wide open arch that suggested a separation between the first room and the kitchen, where he pulled out a chair for him to sit. Then he indicated that I should stand in front of him. Which I did. And it felt intimate and close in a way that made me think he might pull me in to kiss me.

I’d thought about that happening kind of a lot and I hadn’t ever pictured it like this. In the future, though, I would, because when I was standing like this and he was sitting like that, I was actually a bit taller than him and I could imagine my hands going around his neck in a way that lots of people in TV started to kiss.

He didn’t kiss me, though. Nor was he inviting one. His legs bounced or, more like, vibrated, and his hands planted at the top of his legs, inverted like he wanted to ask a question but didn’t have the strength to hold his arms up in the air. It was really confusing how this guy, who was always calm and always knew what to say and always knew what was going on, looked kind of lost. Whole moments passed us by where he looked at me, trying to figure out what to say. The thing that finally came out was, “I don’t know exactly how to have this conversation with you, Micah.”

Crap.

What conversation? It was going to be bad.

Well, of course, it was going to be bad. I knew that from the instant he stopped practice. If I wasn’t smart enough to pick up on that hint, there was the practically wordless drive to get here. And the fact that we came here rather than my house meant something was different but, it was also how at least one of my fantasies started, so even though I should have known better, I hoped that maybe…it didn’t matter. I was wrong.

“This might seem scary right now but I’m not going to hurt you. But I do want to know more about who is hurting you. And, I think, that maybe this has been going on for a long time?”

I crossed my arms and shrunk back. He didn’t let me. His hands were on my arms so fast that he didn’t even have time to stand up and he was just squatting there with his butt less than a foot away from the chair, his thighs straining, his eyes drilling into mine, his forehead wrinkled, and when he sat back down, he slowly pulled me with him so that I stood right in front of him again.

“What happened to you Micah, will you show me?”

I shook my head and brought my arms up to my chest. I didn’t want him to see. I didn’t want him to know that it was my fault. That I lied and that I stole stuff and that I broke stuff and that I made my mom really, really angry with me.

“I need to tell you something and I don’t think you’re going to like it,” he said. “Because I am a coach and you are my athlete, I am in a position of trust. Maybe not as much as a parent has but, certainly, as much as any teacher or counselor. If I don’t have confidence that you are healthy enough to perform, I can’t coach you and I can’t let you compete,” he said this while and stroked my hair. I didn’t want that sort of comfort; I wanted space. And, I didn’t want his attention — not for this — I wanted to crawl away and hide. I didn’t want him to see me like this because I didn’t want him to treat me differently.

He continued, “There’s a meet next month. It’s a big one that you’ve trained hard for. But, I suspect that you’re injured. So, you can either show me where you’re hurt so I can try to help you. Or, you can go with me to a clinic where they check you out. Or, I can come to your school tomorrow and we will have the school nurse check you out. But one of those things is going to happen.”

I swallowed hard and looked outside where there was no one on the street, not walking, not driving, and the sky started to get a little bit darker. Just about now, mom was picking up Seth from soccer practice. Then she’d be home. What is she going to do when she finds out about this? 

_Think._

If I chose the school nurse, then maybe I could be sick tomorrow, or even for a few days. But then I couldn’t practice. Definitely, I didn’t want to go to a clinic. That would take forever and it might cost money. I scratched my head just underneath my hair. There wasn’t a good choice to make.

“Micah,” Coach interrupted my thoughts to ask, “Do you trust me, Micah?”

Why do adults always ask that? Trust. It depends, right? Like do I trust him to teach me how to do stuff? Yes. Do I trust him not to tell on me? Not really. He never did it before but he’s kind of telling me straight up that he wants me to tell him a secret that I didn’t want anyone to know — including him — and that he’d inevitably share it with someone and sooner rather than later, I’d be face-to-face with the thing I didn’t want to have shared in the first place. Oh, and by the way, that would be up to his discretion.

If there was anyone I trusted…

But, this can’t be happening…

My eyes shut tightly because I just…couldn’t. Coach’s big, warm hands were on my back. He pulled me in close and stroked my back while I tucked my head into his neck, and smelled him while I stood there, and just shivered, though I couldn’t tell if it was the shock of it all coming to light or the fact that he was touching me in this way that made us get closer

And, fuck!

Like it wasn’t already bad enough with all of this stuff that was on the verge of being exposed and how I was in danger of not competing — which was the only good thing I had going on in my life — but the most humiliating thing I could think of just happened: I popped wood. Like, right into Coach’s stomach. And like, I couldn’t move my hands to cover it up because he held me so tight and, because it would have been so obvious. Seriously, I didn’t know what to do. It was already bad enough to have him dig into personal stuff. Now, I’ve got this tent well. There was no way he wouldn’t feel it.

Coach immediately dropped the embrace and pivoted me around so that I faced him instead of the wall. Then he stood up and said, “It happens. No big. The bathroom is through that doorway to the right, first door on the left. I need to make a phone call but you take your time, okay?”

I nodded, completely shamefaced, and followed his directions until I got to the small bathroom with a white and gold Formica countertop and matching linoleum flooring that peeled up at the edges. They were meant to look like white marble tile with gold veins. The small room was bright with afternoon sunshine. It was also chilly, which helped.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to do while I was in here. It wasn’t like I had to pee or anything. Not that I could right now anyway. So I looked around.

There was this bathmat that Seth would have liked because it was bright blue and fluffy. Other than that, there wasn’t much: soap, things to shave and brush his teeth, and a two-in-one conditioning shampoo.

The echoes of Coach’s voice on the phone came in low drones. The conversation was both serious and about me. Well, that solved my predicament, didn’t it? I didn’t even have to start thinking of school work or parents or maggot-covered-Fudgsicles. The tent was down.

Then, I realized. I would have to leave this room. Of course, it wasn’t like I thought I could live in here forever. But it just occurred to me that, I wouldn’t be able to avoid walking out and making eye contact with a guy that just had my boner up against him. Not just any guy. Coach Bryan. I wasn’t all crushed on him. Not really. I just liked how it was sometimes, being next to him and all.

But the fantasies that I’d had about him were not at all like the thing that just happened. _Oh, god. Just kill me, okay?_

I splashed water on my face and dried it with a white towel that was just like the ones from the gymnastics center but stamped with a symbol I didn’t recognize.

Right.

No time like the present.

The sounds of the door clicking open and of my feet walking along the floor were exaggerated in the surrounding silence. And when I saw him, Coach Bryan stood with his wallet in one hand, keys in the other, and with a brief smile and briefer nod. Like nothing had ever happened.

We got back in the car and started driving and it wasn’t the way we would normally go to my house.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To your dad’s work. He’s going to wait there for us.”

The rest of the drive was silent. The sinking, horrible feeling that I did something wrong — like really wrong — came back. Usually, I could tie it back to a thing I did but this time, it was just this really bad feeling and I knew it was my fault but I genuinely didn’t know what I did, other than, maybe having done all the little things that added up to one big comprehensive thing. Like how at the end of the year you get one grade that added up from all the things you did in class for months and months.

And now we were on the way to see dad.

Coach Bryan knocked on the dark glass door of an office that looked like no one was in it. It felt like forever until Dad came out to unlatch the lock and let us in. The walk through the reception and offices was a long, dark one and we were clearly going to the one that, like a beacon, had light streaming out of it.

I knew that dad had the corner office but it had been a while since I’d seen it. The shelf behind him was full of photos. There Seth’s photos from soccer where there was a big rectangular photo of the team on the bottom and an oval photo of him alone as he kneeled on grass with his hand on a brand new soccer ball. And there were a bunch of me, some with me on the podium, some with me mid-routine. There was only one with mom and it was from Halloween a few years ago when, we weren’t the Flintstones but the Rubbles, and both Seth and I were Bam-Bam.

Dad leaned on his desk, arms crossed, legs crossed, stoic. He watched me for a bit, and since he knew me better than to think I’d speak first, he blew out his cheeks and asked for the same thing that coach did earlier, “Can you tell me what happened?”

My voice was always the first thing to go. I tried to say something and just ended up squeaking behind a mouth that wouldn’t move. My head dropped and shook back and forth. _No, I can’t tell you._

“Micah, your coach and I need to see where you are injured. You will show us.” his voice was quietly fierce and I didn’t dare disobey. Dad had a belt, which he used sparingly, and the power to take things away, which he also did sparingly. Unlike mom, his strike was quick, ruthless, and always for a _purpose_. It was also separated from the original event so that I had time to think about what I had done before I received my punishment. Over time, I learned that I would do ask he asked without question so that, for the most part, his discipline had tapered into nothingness.

My fingers found the hem of my shirt and lifted. Coach sucked air through his teeth. I looked over my shoulder to where Dad looked concerned. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said and lifted my shirt a bit higher up until I had to raise my arms so he could take it off.

Coach asked, “Is this why you wear sleeves to practice?” There weren’t many kids who wore sleeves over tanks or even no shirts at all. I was one of them. I kept the shirts that were too tight to wear but long enough to tuck into my pants.

“Answer him, Micah,” scolded dad, his voice cut through the air straight into my heart with a timbre that told me, sympathy or not, he wasn’t kidding around.

I nodded.

Dad scrubbed his face with his hands, Coach crossed his arms. Together they held the space — and my heart — in a silent reckoning. Dad pressed lightly at a spot on my shoulder that I didn’t know was bruised and said, “I can’t believe he could practice like this.”

“He shouldn’t have been. A rib that could have been cracked could have gotten worse. That bruise on his back could have underlying kidney damage. There is no way he couldn’t have been in pain and that’s really…Micah, that’s bad, kid. You can’t do that to yourself. It’ll kill your career and your body.”

I heard him. I heard his words and his concern. But, I could still do it. I mean, I showed him, right? Not an hour ago, I did the best Yamawaki that I’d ever done in my life. When all the people are the best at what they do, don’t they say things like “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” and “No pain, no gain” and other things that captured in a few words all they had to push through to meet their goals? I wanted to let them know I was fine. I’d actually practiced through worse. It was no big deal. Not enough to cancel the meet, anyway.

“What do we do?” asked Dad.

“I have to report this. I’m sorry that I have to but I _do_ have to. Still, we have choices. For example, we can go through the police or social services. We can go to them or they can come to us. It may be better for your wife to be part of the process early on. You can call some relatives or friends to see if there’s a place for him to stay so that he can stay out of the foster care.”

“I don’t want to go to foster care,” I mumbled, aware of my hands grasping large chunks of my hair at the side of my head.

“I can call my mom,” dad said.

I protested, “What? No. Not Grandma Rebecca. What about…”

“Everyone else at least a hundred miles away. You’d disrupt your school, your training. You won’t get to see your friends.”

“But isn’t there…” I wracked my brain. I had some friends but they weren’t people I could stay with. “Coach? Couldn’t I stay with you?”

“No, you can’t. I’m not set up for that and it would be inappropriate. If worse came to worse and your grandma couldn’t do it, I could ask around to the other student parents. But, it would really be best if you stayed with your own family.” Coach took my shirt from dad and handed it back to me so that I could put it back on.

I went over to the black leather loveseat that he had on the rear wall of his office. I zoned out and let the room get smaller and smaller, further and further away. That’s where I stayed while they talked logistics, while dad called the grandma, then the hospital, then to the urgent clinic and then to grandma again. Eventually, Coach went home and I went left with dad. Somehow, he got me in to see someone right away. They put me in one of those faded blue gowns that opened at the back. Then they poked and prodded at me, and then send me to freezing cold hallway to wait for x-rays to be taken. In the end, they didn’t do much more than tape me up, which was something that Coach could have done just as well, and probably for a lot less money.

I was dead on my feet by the time we finally got home. It didn’t occur to me that someone might not have called mom about my whereabouts. She was guarded when the two of us walked in, ready to pounce on me or dad or the both of us. “So, you finally got caught?” I knew what she meant. She, herself, caught me with two new CD’s and a bunch of candy. That’s what got me into this mess That and the fact that I lied about going to the mall instead of the library, where I was supposed to be studying.

“No, Suz. He didn’t get caught. You did,” dad said, and he turned his attention to me, “Micah, take your brother and go to your room. Get a start on your homework.”

There was macaroni and cheese on the stove (with hot dogs). It had congealed, clearly cooked a while ago, but still, even looking at me caused my stomach to gurgle. Dad went from cool to whipped up as he went over to the cabinet and clattered about loudly while he dished up two huge bowls of the bright orange stuff. He pulled out 2 soup spoons, popped them in so that their handles stuck out like a flagpole, and he handed them both to me. “You two go eat in your room and then start on your homework.” Like it didn’t even occur to him that it was already Seth’s bedtime.

We pulled my comforter off my bed and put the towel on top of that and then sat cross-legged in front of each other. Seth looked at me wide-eyed, “What’s happening?” I didn’t really know how to answer him. I had been there through all of it, first with Coach and then with dad, but I didn’t know what it all meant or what would happen next.

Mom and dad went into their room and shut the door. Their voices vibrated through the halls and plaster that separated us and nothing was clear enough to make anything out. That is, until dad, who never yelled, yelled, “Suzanne, I cannot take any more of this and, quite frankly, I don’t want to.”

The next day, all three of us guys moved in with Grandma Rebecca. Dad had the spare room; Seth and I each took a couch.


	3. Chapter 3

My stomach was full of bees and butterflies all the way to the gray granite office building where were were going to meet with mom. It was our first session for family counseling and the first time I’d see her in almost three months. That wasn’t totally true. I swore I saw her at my last meet, right after I dismounted from my second set on the pommel horse. It was just a split second. She was clapping hard and her face was all red like she’d been crying. I tried to track her down but Coach pulled me aside and reminded me that if she had shown up, she’d be violating a court order.

“She wouldn’t do that, right? Not if she knew that your dad would be able to use that against her for custody rights,” said Coach. He was nonchalant when he said it, as if he could have been talking about something that meant nothing, as if he were speaking in code and he might have seen her, too. I liked that he was not-so-secretly cheering her on. Like if he was willing to give her another chance it meant she was really trying hard to change, which meant that maybe I could give her another chance, too.

Now that we were here, though, I was nervous. Seth unclicked his seatbelt and grabbed my hand so that I could pull to slide him over the bench of the back seat and toss him over me so I could carry him piggyback to the front of the office building. He chuffed against my ear and held his arms tight around my neck. If there was anything good about living at Grandma Rebecca’s, which was too far away from our friend’s houses to go on our own, it was my brother.

Dad grumped, “Get down, Seth. You boys are too old to be acting like that.”

“Yessir,” we mumbled. I bent down and unhooked my elbows from the back of his knees. We looked at each other with a secret smile and walked like we had sticks up our respective asses all the way to the office.

“Mom!” Seth saw her first and ran the last few steps to give embrace her. I made a sandwich out of him by giving her a hug with him in the middle. She teared up right away and pulled our heads close to her face so that she could smell our hair. It was like she never trusted her eyes as much as her nose. Even in the grocery store. Other people would pick something up, turn it over in their hands, feel for hard spots or squishy spots and put the thing they wanted in the basket. Not mom. It went straight from the bin to her nose and, eight times out of ten, it went back. I don’t know how we were never kicked out.

“You look good, Suz,” complimented dad, though he stood back and watched the scene unfold or, more like, us unfold from mom. My stomach clenched when I realized he wasn’t going to hug her. I remembered what he said about being done and hoped that he was just mad. That he didn’t mean it. Part of me thought that if he were really serious about leaving her, we’d be staying in an apartment. Now that I look at him, though, and how she looked at him like she’s given up, I don’t know what to think.

Or, I do but I just don’t like it.

“Hey,” she said, brightly, “let’s do this thing.”

Seth grabbed her hand and walked with her up the stairs. I followed them, dad followed me, the three of us sat down, and dad went up to sign-in for our appointment and we were immediately brought back to a room that was straight out of the latest JC Penney catalog. Everything was in light gray and muted blue — even the pictures on the walls — and there was an untreated pine coffee table separating the two big couches that matched a bookshelf at the back of the room that had toys along the top shelves and books along the bottom.

The woman who took us back here handed us forms on clipboards that had pens connected via a ball chain just long enough to be able to write uncomfortably. “I’ll stay with you while you fill these out. Let me know if you have any questions.”

“Are we paying you for the time it takes for us to fill out your forms?” Dad asked

The woman leveled him with a look, “I’m the nurse, sir. I’d be glad to have you fill these out in the waiting room but we thought the privacy might be helpful.”

“No,” he grumbled, “It’s fine.”

Despite the nice furniture, the scritching pens and sniffling noses and long forms with bubbles made it feel like we were taking one of those standard tests at school. Except the questions were way more embarrassing:

_1\. Do you feel uncomfortable, nervous or anxious around your mother?_

_2\. Do you feel uncomfortable, nervous or anxious around your father?_

_3\. Are you afraid of voicing your opinion at home?_

_4\. Do you feel that nothing you do is ever good enough?_

The questions went on and on and on with lots of questions that made me think that someone must have been hanging around our house and each question was followed by a series of circles to fill in, depending on which choice best fit my answer: no, sometimes, regularly.

_25\. Do you lie to your friends, teachers, family, or doctors about the cause of your cuts, scrapes, and bruises?_

By the time I got to the bottom, I was feeling braver so I filled in the bubble that was next to the word _sometimes_.

That was the end of the first page. Behind it were pages that focused on different things. One was all about how I slept and which situations made my heart race. Another was about how much joy and happiness I felt. The next was about my concentration levels and how I tended to think things through. Yet another was about social situations, my energy levels, how much I liked to talk when I’m happy. The last ones were about whether I’d ever thought about whether things would be better if I were dead.

I looked up and was surprised to see that I was the only one not finished. “Don’t worry kiddo, you had a few extra pages to fill in,” said the woman, and she smiled as she took my form. Then she looked at my dad and said more seriously, “Your appointment will begin on the hour as scheduled. You may remain in here or I can take you back to the waiting room. Do you have a preference?”

“We’ll stay here, thanks,” said my mom, her muscles around her neck were stiff but that didn’t stop her from showing off her thousand watt smile. While we waited, mom asked Seth questions about his schoolwork, his soccer games, his friends. Seth told her all about it and then bragged on me a bit to tell her about my last two meets. “Mom, he did a double flip on the floor that was so big and so high, I didn’t think he’d be able to land it. But he did. And when he did it was like _blam,_ there was no question that he totally landed it. Like he was stuck there with Gorilla Glue. You should have seen his face, mom. It was priceless. He was looking around like this,” he babbled and scanned his eyeballs in exaggerated movements to the right and to the left as if we were in an auditorium surrounded by people and he was checking them out.

Mom laughed, “That sounds amazing.”

“So amazing. Did you know that dad took video of the whole thing? Did he show you? You can come to the next one, right?”

“I hope so,” said mom. She scrubbed his hair and looked at me. “It will depend on how today goes. I want to see your games, too.”

“What about your classes? Do you still have to take your classes at night?”

“I have two kinds of classes to take now. The ones to be a better mom and the ones for my certificate.”

“Oh. So like when can we come home?”

Mom pressed her lips together and looked at dad with an emotion I’d just seen downstairs after only two out of three of us embraced her - a cross between annoyance, frustration, and hopelessness. “Did you tell them anything, David?”

Dad had been looking out the window with his hands in his pockets. He kept his feet planted and twisted his head toward us to say, “I thought it would be better here, while we were all together. Less confusing for everyone that way.”

Mom’s face shut down at almost the exact instant that someone new came into the room. I’d overheard the expression _wizened queen_ as said by some classmates who were into D &D and I imagined a world with dragons and old trees and a witch who could turn into both. But now, this woman has walked into the room and I’ve changed my mind. There wasn’t anything particularly extraordinary about her pantsuit, her height, or the way she walked. But there was something in the way she held herself that led me to believe that somehow, regardless of her actual parentage, she was a queen.

Her head was also covered by this dramatic looking scarf. It was black and it had big red and cream colored flowers on it. The red matched her lipstick and the cream matched the shirt under her gray jacket. And she was totally covered in wrinkles — not just around her eyes or forehead but even her cheeks and her neck.

“I’m Dr. Perlman,” she introduced herself and looked at us one by one as she verified our names. When she rested her eyes on me, it felt like I was looking straight into the night. To most people I knew, that experience might be scary or intimidating. But I was one of those people who, when you asked them their feelings if they were in a super black room, I would say _safe_. It seemed like Seth felt the same as me. But mom didn’t and dad definitely didn’t.

“Are you sick?” blurted dad and, in response, mom chided, “David, that’s rude.”

“No, I don’t mind telling you. As it happens, I am not sick. My sister is going through treatments and she has recently lost her hair. I am doing this [she pointed to her head] so she doesn’t have to go through it alone,” her benign smile passed through both of my parents and into the room around us. The next thing she said focused us on the reason we were there, “I am very glad to see the four of you in one room. I imagine you’re all a bit nervous since there’s so much riding on what happens in the next hour. When we get to the end of our session, I plan on telling you what my recommendation will be.”

Recommendation?

Seth and I looked at each other with matched expressions: knitted eyebrows, upper lip lifted to one side, forehead crinkled, eyes uncertain.

“Do you boys know why you’re here?”

We shook our head.

“This is an assessment to determine if it is a good idea for you boys and your mom to live together again.”

“So the four of us, right?” asked Seth.

“That’s my understanding. Unless there’s been a development that either of you would like to bring up?” The question was directed to each of my parents who, in turn, looked at each other.

Dad cleared his throat and spoke up, “At the moment, I plan to stay at my mother’s.” As soon as he started speaking, I knew what he’d say. It was like each next word simply fell into place.

But Seth didn’t see it coming at all, “But why not? Don’t you love us?”

Dad was silent.

Mom pulled Seth into a hug, “Of course, he loves you. He’s your dad and he’ll love you forever. Just like I love you and I’ll love you forever. It’s just your dad and I need some time apart to work through our problems. We want to all live together again and we’re going to work toward that. It just won’t happen right away.”

Dr. Perlman watched all this and scratched the back of her neck, nonplussed like she was a duck and everything that wasn’t her was water.And then she asked us how we felt about the news. The rest of them ran through the spectrum of sad to devastated. Dad never thought it would come to this. Mom felt betrayed after she had worked so hard. Seth was confused and scared.

“Micah, you haven’t said anything. What do you think?” asked Dr. Perlman.

I was glad that she changed the wording of the questions from _how do you feel_ to _what do you think_? because, quite frankly, my thoughts were clear and my feelings were messy. “I think it’s better.”

“Better? Why do you say that?”

“Because, when we all lived together, dad was home but he was never home. And it meant that mom had to try to work around him all the time. She never did what she wanted. Like he goes to travel all the time but she’s never invited. And when she wants to travel with us, everything is on hold for him. So we don’t ever do anything. And it’s the same thing when it comes to us. She’s the one who is around, even with a job and night school, and so she makes things a certain way. But then he comes home and he isn’t happy with any of it.”

Both dad and mom looked at me slack jawed but no one else said anything so I kept on going, “Which means that the things that were okay aren’t anymore. Then, there are new rules and we’re supposed to change who we are. But sometimes I can’t change that much or like I can’t be that person. So, mom is stuck between what dad is asking for and how I can’t do it. It stresses her out and she freaks out and then she explodes.”

“I just think that everyone talks about love but that’s not what makes things work or not work. And, for us, things don’t work because we don’t know each other and the stuff we do know about each other we don’t like.”

Then, I stopped.

And it was quiet.

“I don’t think you’ve ever said so much at one time,” mom said, softly.

Dad looked angry. “Are you saying it’s my fault that your mother beats you?”

I shook my head for no, though I kinda wanted to say yes, and then I got all confused again.

Dr. Perlman’s voice cut through the air, “There will be a correlation between the family dynamic and the injury that Micah has suffered. Both children have suffered, by the way. Everyone in this room should acknowledge that. Just because Seth’s injuries can’t be seen in the same way that Micah’s were doesn’t mean they didn’t exist. However, you, David, and Suzanne — and I think Micah — should know that Suzanne alone is responsible for the physical abuse. And that’s why she’s been held accountable.”

Her attention turned back to me, “What you said, Micah. It’s quite perceptive, Micah. How long have you felt this way?”

“I don’t know. It just came to me,” I said, and felt gazes heavy with accusation, one from the close couch, one from the other. I couldn’t help but feel that the fact that I said it would mean that, somewhere along the way, I was responsible for thinking it into being. And it all started… “no, actually.”

“Go on.”

“It started when they made me get my hair cut.”

My parents protested at the same time but over different things. Him about looking inappropriate, her about my memory.

“I remember everything,” I repeated. I could feel the metal on the back of my neck, the color of Grandma Rebecca’s nail polish, the first glance in the mirror, the color of the towel that hung from the rack. Things that couldn’t be explained by someone else’s repeat of the story. A story, by the way, that seeded the enmity between my mother and my grandmother, and one that helped form the current conditions in which my mother’s face was cut out of every portrait on display at Grandma Rebecca’s.

“What is with you today, Micah? Should I have let you start school looking like a queer? What kind of father would I have been, huh? A bad one.” He sat down, knees spread wide, one hand on a hip and the other on the top of his leg, and he spoke more slowly now, “I have never let you go hungry, I have never made you sleep without a roof over your head, and when I found out you were hurt, I took care of it. That’s what a man does for his kids. I’m not a bad father.”

_I didn’t say you were._

The conversation spins up around me. Mostly it’s mom and dad going back and forth. I hear Seth’s voice; he asked them to stop arguing. I hear the doctor’s voice; she asked for clarification. The language they use — it’s like they both agree there’s something wrong with me but to him, it’s her fault and to her, it’s his fault. Micah’s just shy. He’s going to be a faggot. Micah can’t express himself. He doesn’t have friends. He relies on his mother to organize activities. It built and built and built until…

_Click_

_Stop_

_Whirr_

The four of us turned to the doctor, who was holding a Polaroid camera in one hand and an undeveloped photo in the other. “Don’t worry. I won’t keep it. But I want you to see this scene the way I do.”

She dropped the photo onto the table in front of us. It started as a block of grayish green. Dark blobs appeared — the picture in the background, mom’s purse, my hair. Then came the outlines of us and of the furniture we sat on. Finally, the faces.

“Tell me what you see,” she prompted.

“My ugly face.” I didn’t even realize I said it out loud.

“Tell me what you mean, Micah.”

So I do. “That’s the face that makes mom really mad. She hates it.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I couldn’t think. A-and, I can’t say anything.”

“So, when you look like that, it’s because you can’t say anything?”

I nod.

“Is it because you shut down or do you know what you want to say but can’t move your mouth?”

“Shut down.”

“Okay. I want you to know something, Micah. When you do that, it’s not your fault. And, there are things we can do to test exactly why it happens and there are things we can do to help so that you don’t feel that way anymore.”

My face got hot and my eyes felt heavy with water.

“So, parents. Look at this picture. Tell me how you’d feel if you were Micah and had the two of you looking like that.”

I was vaguely aware of mom, who said, “oh god.”

After a few moments of waiting to hear something from my dad, the doctor responded herself. “If I were you and the two people I counted on the most looked at me like that, I’d be scared. We need to fix that. Now, it has taken a long time for it to get like this, so it’s going to take some to make it better.”

“Now, take a look at Seth. If I don’t understand the communication dynamic, he doesn’t have a chance. We need to fix this for him as well. If we all work together, I think we can bring you together as a family. I can’t say whether the marriage will work out or not. But, if you want to hold on to your kids — and I’m talking to both of you parents — there’s a lot of work to be done.”

“I need to mention something that happened in our discussion today. I heard some concerns over whether you, Micah, may or may not have homosexual tendencies.” She walked over to the bookshelf, pulled down three shiny folders, and gave one to mom, one to dad, and the last to me. “I got the impression that you in particular, David, may have some misconceptions about how Micah may or may not identify. He may not even know. But, given all else that this family has been through, should this topic come up, I encourage you to seek out professional help to have that discussion and, quite frankly, to prepare for it.”

She gave all of us cards, reminded us to call her if we needed anything, and she gave me an extra long look to make sure I heard her.

I held the card in both of my hands. No one had ever given me a card before. It had the logo of the medical center on the upper right-hand side. It had her name: Dr. Deborah Perlman, MD. Plus, it had loads of ways to contact her — a phone number, an emergency phone number, an e-mail address.

“Would you be willing to tell us what you’re going to tell the judge?” asked mom, who had worry creases on her forehead.

“I am going to recommend that you try living together for a trial period if you continue your classes and private sessions. I am cautiously optimistic that we’ll see some improvements if all four of you participate. But, you should know that one more incident, and you stand the risk of permanently losing your parental rights. You’ll get a notice from the judge in the next days. After that, if he agrees, you’ll be able to move back in.”

Mom hugged the shiny folder to her chest and pulled Seth to her with her other arm. She gave me a smile half pulled to the side and half hopeful.

On the way out, dad chucked his folder into the trash can outside the glass door and before I had time to process what he was doing, he yanked mine out of my hand did the same. “That was a waste of time. Absolute nonsense. Suzanne, get rid of that folder. I don’t care who we see in future, but it isn’t going to be her,” dad spat.

Instead of giving it to him, she stuffed it into her purse and zipped it shut, daring him to come get it off her.

He walked away, trusting that Seth and I would be on his heels.

“I’m going to see you soon. Both of you,” mom said and, giving us a double hug, shuffled us over to dad’s car. She stayed put until we drove away.

Grandma had dinner ready when we got home. “How was it?” she asked?

“Fine. Over, I hope,” dad answered.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the kids can move back sometime next week and life can return to normal.”

“Is that it?”

“No.”

The two of them continued as if Seth and I weren’t in the room at all. She raised her eyebrows and waited for him to answer.

“I think it’s time we meet this Rabbi of yours. They need some stronger role models that they aren’t getting at school. Perhaps, he can help.”

“Oh, that’s perfect. I’ll arrange a meeting before Saturday Shabbat. He can tell you all about the Hebrew program and Torah study. Maybe after Micah’s Bar Mitzvah, I can take the three of you to Israel like we talked about!”

_Bar what?_

“Dad,” I said, “I have practice all day on Saturdays. And Seth has a game. We can’t just skip them.”

“You can and you will,” his tone indicated that it was going to be one of those things we had no say in.

“But dad,” complained Seth, “that’s all we have left.”

Grandma shouted right away, “Don’t you speak to your father that way. It’s disrespectful. That’s your father. You do what he says!” Then she turned back to my dad and said, “How did you let them get to be so spoiled, David? It’s her, isn’t it? This was her doing.”

Seth and I sat at the table in shock and picked at our food while dad continued to speak to his mother. One or the other of them noticed that our plates were still full.

“What the hell are you two playing at?” yelled dad. “Eat your damn food.” He reached back to grab the two oven mitts that were hanging off the edge of the stove. He threw one at my head and one at Seth’s. “That didn’t hurt.”

Seth’s chin folded up on itself. He took a deep breath and he said very carefully, “You’re just as bad as her, except she knows when she messed up. I’m never going to be like you. Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> Owned by Alex de Morra.


End file.
